


in your splendour

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Academy Fic, EXTREMELY MANCHESTER UNITED, Gen, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 02:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15809913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: Ever since you were a boy you wanted only one thing.





	in your splendour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> If you think this is a rewrite of the first four chapters of gary's autobiography, you'd be right. NEVERTHELESS, all the love in the world to Rachel (please feed me bikkie)

 

Ever since you were a boy you wanted only one thing.

 

 

-

  
You’re sure most boys dream about it. Bedrooms wallpapered with red figures frozen mid stride, weekends spent shivering on the K-stand, the letter in the mailbox with a ticket to apprenticeship inside. Certainly it’s what you dreamed about, even though you’re not a dreamer so much as a planner- You need things to be laid out, step by step, methodical. You guarded your weakness and listed your strengths seriously, even as a child, watching with some envy as Phil breezed through all the schoolboy trials on raw talent.

Still- the dream persists. You get the trial- you get the letter- you get four years with United, unimaginably long when it’s almost a third of your lifetime. Later you remember- the first time you showed up at Boundary Park and Butty’s companionable arm around you, Scholesy sending a cheerful ball straight at your head in greeting. In the twilight dusk behind your old house with no one but Phil coming determinedly at you. The first training session at the Cliff indoor hall with the freezing wind rattling the window panes and your fists clenched to keep the heat in.

All these things you tend to remember out of order, the rapid way memories tumble together, all the things you hated and loved and this one thing that kickstarted the rest of your life- You eating chips and staring down at your letter, resisting the urge to rub at the line with your name on it, pressed pen and ink, Gary Neville, the letterhead with the crest you can trace with your eyes closed, that you’d know deaf and blind. You can’t eat chips without thinking of it, so warm inside and out.

 

 

 

-

 

 

All that warmth lasted about a day before you discovered something strange. Suddenly you couldn’t fall asleep at night.

  
You tossed and turned and thought about drills and weights and whether you’d grow any taller or if you needed to run more and the lights slid about on the ceiling till you fall asleep for what felt like a minute before your dad’s rapping at the door. Then it’s school, where you doze off after the first ten minutes, jerking awake from dreams of blurry figures dribbling circles around you.

Then training, where you force yourself awake properly. The first time you feel alive at all all day, the fierce strumming pounding in your whole body.

Still there was a buzzing edge to everything you do.

It sat there like a lump of ice in the middle of your chest, so cold even the hottest days couldn’t melt it. Only looking back later will you realise it’s terror, bound up so tight like a twine ball you couldn’t take it apart or examine it, except bat it away with your desire.

Sometimes it seemed like desire was all you had. You wanted it so much, so clearly, you can see your dearest dream when you close your eyes- and how many could say that? Tell me your one wish in the whole world - you can see it. The crest on your chest, the white letters on your back, everything red. United.

You wanted it so much and thought about it so often it felt like reality was slipping a bit at the edges. Whenever you’re running, cleats pounding through the uneven turf, sweat sliding from your drenched hair into your eyes, unable to hold back your gasps, the ball beside you transformed into your dream-

It was so close, you know. It was so close you could brush at it with your fingertips, and if you can just grab it, all the mundane terror of reality will be swept away and you will emerge, glowing, into a fresh and beautiful world. United.

  
But you didn’t count on Becks arriving.

-

 

He’s blonde and he looks very nonchalant. When Eric introduced him he stood there simply, hands behind his back and shoulder slightly hunched, before sticking out his hand for each of you to shake. All of you crowd around him curiously, sizing up this fresh faced boy in a United tracksuit, his blonde hair brushed over his forehead back.

“What’s your position then, Beckham?” Sav asks.

“Midfield,” he says, and his face softens a little when he says it. Your heart seizes in your chest and keeps on beating and you tell yourself to calm down. No one knows how good he is yet.

 

  
When he first touches the ball, you feel suddenly dizzy. You wanted to run off the field then and there, toss your cleats in the bin and never play football again. It’s only a passing moment of despair, but it hit so fast and heavy you’re left breathless in its aftermath. You’d be lying, though, if you admit it was only jealousy. There’s something in the way he played, this blonde boy who came out of nowhere with his slim legs a whirr over the ball, the way he made those passes- the long, lazy arc of the ball like a beast tamed under his spell, ending unerringly where he meant for it to go. The first time it falls to Sav you could see the surprise in his face and he almost stumbles. But it was too good, anyway, the ready made goal from Beckham, and all it needed was the barest touch to roll into the net.

Everyone surrounds him after, whooping. He grins, proud, cheeks flushed. You meet his eye across the crowd and can’t, for the life of you, look away.

 

  
-

  
Becks’ arrival was only big news for a couple days at most, certainly not lasting beyond a week. He was only part of the influx of talented boys from all over. You absorb this with some disbelief- surely you can’t be the only one who sees that he was different, if not the most talented of you all then perhaps the next best at least.

Becks is surprising in many ways. For one thing, he was quiet. Not as quiet as Scholesy, who could disappear if he really wanted to, but quieter than his on field antics would suggest. The other boys called him a flash Cockney, and Becks smiles, only the barest edge to it. He has the softest voice that refused to get any deeper, even when you’re fighting everyday to tug your voice back from a sliding scale of bass to falsetto.

  
And he sought you out first, after practice. You didn’t think he would; he had so much talent he almost didn’t have to work for it. Or so you thought.

You kick the ball against the wall stubbornly, wind soothing your overworked muscles and lifting your hair. Becks loiters- you haven’t spoken a word to him beyond the usual grunts of greeting in training.

“Gary?” he says, hesitant. You didn’t want to reply, wanted him to go away and flirt with the schoolgirls waiting by the Cliff gates he’d been grinning at earlier. Wanted him to go away and leave you working on what meagre strengths you have, the ball of ice in your chest refusing you any slack.

“Can I join?” he says, but he’s already dropping a ball he’d gotten from somewhere and kicking it, not waiting for you to answer. The thunk echo of the ball hitting the bricks in sync is soothing, and afterwards, you invite him for your guilty bimonthly trip to the chip shop. He accepts, and you - sudden, surprising - were friends, just like that.

 

-

  
Turns out you had many things in common. Foremost being United. Before you joined the youth team and left all your Liverpool supporting schoolmates behind, it was inconceivable that there were boys who played for United who didn’t support United. But Becks, clearly, had no such issue. You watch him over your milkshake, him squeezing a lemon carefully over his chips, face alight with fervour.

“Who’s your favorite player?” he says, eager.

“Bryan Robson,” you say, wary.

He thinks for a good two minutes, the two of you demolishing the single chip serving, before remarking that Robson was good, but there were obvious things he could’ve worked on more.

It boggled your mind, but only at first. Becks was almost too good to be true, Cockney accent and all, and you let him take the last chip, and when you leave you sling an arm around his shoulders, easy.

 

 

 

  
-

The youth team grated on you, and the nights never got better. In time you accepted it for the sacrifice it was, along with childhood friends, outings to nightclubs, and not running until you wanted to throw up.

You often think back to the time you got the letter, a gold memory worn smooth, never tarnishing. You wonder about that other life, the parallel one, the one where Gary Neville remained playing football for the minor schoolboy teams until he left school at 16 and went to University and did business, maybe, accounting or something where he can make lists and plan to his heart’s content. Maybe that Gary would be happy- truly, you have no doubt, people who didn’t play for Manchester United _could_ be happy- that Gary would be busy and fulfilled and have girlfriends and stay out late on friday nights.

It didn’t feel like you. That path, though still possible, now remained like someone else’s future, even though you could very well be dropped at any moment, should you flounder. When you leave school, soon, there is still no guarantee whether you will play in the first team. Whether you’ll step out to a full crowd of seventy four thousand at Old Trafford, your own name on your back, your place in the world secure.

  
There was no guarantee at all. Most of the time now you only feel tired- it’s like growing pains, like a piece of taffy stretched out till the middle thins and threatens to split. Most of the time you’re bored and in pain, teeth set against the endless drills, the casual torments of the lads above you, the months winding away in mind numbing routine, like a football driven against the wall, again and again. Nothing but _I want, I want, I want_ , humming through your veins to keep you upright.

  
-

 

Most of the time- but almost at the same time you were so deeply happy, the settling in your bones happiness, the waking up in your bed not wanting to be anywhere else in the world happiness. It existed at the same time as all the pain and terror. You tried to explain this to Becks, one day, not expecting him to understand- but he nods his head, grave.

He’s sitting beside you on the grass, knees drawn up to his chest. He’s shredding a dandelion, idly, laying the strips of leaf side by side as he goes. “It makes sense, you know. We’re so lucky.”

“Yeah,” you say. It bears reminding sometimes, especially since it was your turn under the wire wool again today and your back was still bleeding. Becks looks at you sitting rigidly to keep your shirt from touching the wounds and winces in sympathy.

“Off, “ he says, shuffling over and making gestures at your shirt. You give in, and he dabs at the burst skin with a handkerchief he produced from some pocket.

“That doesn’t help,” you say, glaring at him, except he seems so upset by this that you relent and let him keep going. His cool fingers made things slightly better, and at least it wasn’t chafing against the inside of your shirt anymore.

“More laps?” he says afterwards, standing up and offering you a hand. That was Becks, both a challenge and a comfort. You put your hand in his.

 

 

-

  
You were so close with all the rest of the lads that it never hits you Becks was different till it was too late. You stuck close to each other because it was a comfort, Butty yelling at the wind to blow harder when you’re out running laps in the field again mid rainstorm, Sav’s way of demolishing whichever older apprentice was driving the daily punishments in an undertone, Scholesy’s silent and easy companionship when you needed nothing except someone else there to sit with you.

Becks fitted neatly into all that, late night egging you on when you’re practicing for the driving test, endless rounds of one-on-ones post training, rare DVD’s at night, the both of you sprawled out on your couch.

  
In training, Eric switches you to a center back. This made no sense in the beginning and you felt lost, stumbling around like a newborn foal and half heartedly getting into tackles. But gradually it felt better, or maybe it was just the repetitions, the way Giggsy smirked when he danced by you, the ball secured at his feet while you wrung your hands and stood there.

  
“I’m fucking useless,” you say, slamming at your steering wheel one day after training when Giggsy had nutmegged you twice and tripped you three times. Becks lounges sympathetically by your side.

“It’s Ryan,” Becks says, words muffled around his lollipop. You give him a look and he pops it out half guiltily. He tilts it toward you as though offering a lick, and you glared, withering.

“You know what he’s like,” Becks tries again, sticking the candy back into his cheek so it made him look like a chipmunk. “He’s insufferable but he’s so good you just want to beg him to do it again.”

“Speak for yourself,” you say, looking away from Becks. It was overcast, quick clouds skidding by over head. You make up your mind.

  
Next training you go into the tackle with both feet and Giggsy’s look of surprise was worth your skinned palms, comical mouth open in a wide O.

“You clumsy fucking bastard,” he yells, but you’re grinning, and he smacks your arm but he’s cautious when he faces you next, and that’s all you needed to know you could make this work.

 

  
-

  
Your number was five and Becks was six, and you were never far from each other. Somehow the squad did consistently well in the FA cup, and after Sunderland you were as certain of your place as you ever was, the ball of ice in your chest finally thawing.

 

  
Ever since you were a boy you wanted only one thing. Maybe that’s why it took so long to realise you also wanted-

 

 

-

  
“What’ll it be to play for the first team, you think?” Becks says, lying back with his arms crossed under his head. It’s spring and everything’s melting, your boots and kit always striped in mud after every training. The sun came out for the first time in weeks, faintly yellowish, and the two of you stay behind as usual, watching the Cliff empty out.

You think about it, seriously. It was no longer just a dream, but something more like a promise. An appointment, if you like. “Probably terrifying.”

Becks nods, satisfied.

“Probably the best feeling in the world, like playing in a cup game with Bryan Robson in the crowd but also everyone else you love, from your Nan to Sir Busby, and they’re all watching you,” You continue, unable to stop imagining it now that you started.

Becks laughs, flinging a handful of grass at you. “Don’t put it like that.”

“What do you think?” you ask him. Becks looks thoughtful.

“Like when it’s been raining for a long time and suddenly the sun comes out,” he says finally, hesitant. “And you know you’ve found it, finally. Everything you worked for. Home.”

You look at him, lying on the churned up dirt pitch, smudges of mud still streaking his cheeks. He shrugs, then, and gets up, grins at you before hoofing a ball up the pitch.

 

Against all reason it bounces into an open net at the far end.

 

It was like a pang in the middle of your chest- a premonition, or something, a shock in your knees right down to the bone. He’s leaping up, bright hair catching the sunlight and screaming Did you see that, arms wide, wide open.

  
You almost want to get up and leave. Want to turn away from him, the sun, run underground like a rabbit and never come back. A sick echo of the first time you saw him play- It made you get up slowly, and his smile falters at your trepidation.

  
“Can I tell you something?” he says, coming over to stand beside you, arms still out for a hug that was late in the coming.

“Yeah,” you say, terrified you might already know. Terrified he’ll speak the name of whatever it was that was just a cloud hanging over you and make it real. You finally walk into his arms and hug him tight, chin in his shoulder, and he puts his mouth right by your ear and says-

 

“We’re going to make it.”

 

 

  
-

 

 

The light limns his face and turns it a warm, bright gold. It’s like he’s caught the sun in his skin, and he sits there, glowing with it. Fire from heaven.

Years later this is the time you remember you almost reached out. Almost. Sometimes you think you did, blur the lines in your memory and pretend that you remember a hand on his cheek, his face turned toward you, eyes getting wider, mouth curved up on the first syllable of your name.

 

 

  
-

 

_Manchester Un_ _ited 3, Crystal Palace 1- Manchester United 3, Crystal Palace 2 - Fergie’s Fledglings raise the Youth Cup after triumphant season - Future stars of the first team win Youth Cup-_

 

  
You’d known he was right when he said it then, but you didn’t really feel it till you were captaining the team out in Old Trafford to a paltry fourteen thousand- not the fare of the first team but far more than the matches before. Those matches you’d played in before, with the edges of the pitch marked out in pickets and lines, running on bumpy turf.

It felt terrifying. It felt wonderful. It felt - Becks running by you, fleet footed with wind in his hair- like you’re turning around the last bend in the road before you see home.

 

  
Giggsy lifts the trophy, tongue stuck between his teeth and smug, but you don’t begrudge him this. He deserves it more than most, and you’re too relieved, somehow.

You feel it connected to you- and Becks - and the rest of them, Giggsy and Butty and Scholesy- and _we’re going to make it_ \- you could suddenly breathe again, and it felt like ages, ages since you’ve breathed like this. Great gulps of air into your lungs and pouring out of you into the sunlit air. Becks turns to you, laughing, shoving the Cup into your hands, wreathed in red, and this was only the beginning.

 

 

  
This was only the beginning.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
